


Obtuse

by Suomynonakun



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3868951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suomynonakun/pseuds/Suomynonakun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone who was supposed to be Hawkeye's best friend, it took Trapper an inordinate amount of time and an unlocked door to finally realize the truth. And now that he knew, now that he truly understood just what - no, who, of course who - Hawkeye Pierce was, he didn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Back to my roots. First fic I ever wrote was a M*A*S*H fic. Really terrible.
> 
> Thanks to Netflix I've been binging on the show and finally I couldn't stop myself from writing something. Re-watching it with a more adult eye I could help but notice how often Hawkeye flirts with both men and women and I wanted to tackle that. I was planning to make it a one shot, but it got longer without my permission. I imagine it'll only be another chapter or so at most, and yes, there's a decent chance this is going to wind up in slash territory.

For someone who was supposed to be Hawkeye's best friend, it took Trapper an inordinate amount of time and an unlocked door to finally realize the truth. And now that he knew, now that he truly understood just what - no, who, of course  _who_  - Hawkeye Pierce was, he didn't know what to do.

They'd managed to finagle themselves three whole days of R&R in Tokyo, and, like most of these trips, it was a blur of booze, hot tubs, and women. On their last night before having to return to the shit hole they called home, they were each nursing drinks in the hotel bar, surrounded by uniformed soldiers on leave and pretty Asian women. It was loud but it was cheerful, and the only bodies they'd seen all weekend were of the whole, soft, and willing variety, which, after an influx of casualties the week before, was a welcome change to both doctors.

Trapper's eyes followed one dark haired number in a pink kimono as she weaved effortlessly through the crowd, bringing drinks to GI's.

"Hawk, that's the one," Trapper said, elbowing his friend and nodding in her direction.

Hawkeye, on his third drink, followed Trapper's gaze and grinned. "The waitress, Trap? She won't have the time of day for you. Literally. Look how busy she is."

"I tip well," Trapper replied, returning Hawkeye's grin with an impish one of his own and knocking back the rest of his drink.

Hawkeye opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted. "Hey, you're a doctor, aren't you?" They both looked up to see a Major had approached them, and, damnit, was standing right in Trapper's line of sight to the girl. The man looked like he'd stepped right off a recruiting poster: blonde, blue eyed, broad shouldered, strong jawline. Margaret would have swooned at the sight of him.

"Only on days ending in y, Major," Hawkeye said, pleasantly enough.

"Damnit Hawk, are you wearing your stethoscope again?" Trapper teased. "I told you I wanted to relax this weekend." It was a bit curious that the Major had known his profession, considering they were both in their Hawaiian shirts.

"But it really brings out my eyes," Hawkeye replied without missing a beat.

"I thought so," the Major said, as if they hadn't just gone off on a tangent. He held out a hand to Hawkeye. "Major Brian Jessop. I had a bit of a visit the 4077th a few months ago."

"Ahh," Hawkeye said, finishing his drink and shaking the Major's hand. "I remember you now. Bullet in the bum. Sorry, I spent so much of our last interaction staring at your tush, I almost didn't recognize your face."

"That's all right, doc," the Major said, taking the comment in stride. "I should have introduced myself backside first."

Hawkeye let out a surprised laugh and he and Trapper exchanged amused looks. It was so rare to find anyone regular army who had a sense of humor, particularly an officer.

"Next time, hopefully," Hawkeye said.

"Can I buy you both a drink?" the Major asked. "As a token of my appreciation."

From behind Major Broadshoulders Trapper's waitress appeared, serving a table a few over from them. "Rain check for me," he said, standing and straightening his shirt. "I'm gonna see if I can get takeout."

"Nothing too spicy, dear, or you won't get any sleep tonight," Hawkeye said with a grin.

"God willing," Trapper replied.

* * *

Hawkeye had been right. The waitress was all smiles and flattery, but when it came time to seal the deal, she pretty much gave him a bow and shipped him off with a thank you very much GI Joe-san but I'm very busy. Trapper, despite all his best moves, found himself alone at the end of the night.

Hawkeye had approached him at some point during the evening, drunk and giggling, and telling Trapper something about the Major having some flare ups from his injury and that he was going to look him over. He'd shouted about a doctor's work never being done, which blended into many other shouts in the crowded bar. Trapper had nodded and shooed him off, still working on his waitress, and Hawkeye disappeared.

Now he was alone, drunk, and bored, and since Hawkeye had surely finished drunk doctoring by now, he went looking for him. He'd procured a bottle of gin from the hotel bar, and made his way upstairs to his friend's room. He was too out of it to think of knocking when he arrived, instead just pushing the door open and preparing to make some kind of quip about the fun having arrived.

The words died in his throat, though, when he realized that Hawkeye wasn't alone. He was shirtless, back against the wall, eyes closed and head tilted up as Major Broadshoulders bit at his neck. For some reason, Trapper's eyes immediately fell to their hands - Broadshoulders's were gripping at Hawkeye's slim hips, and Hawkeye had one fist twisted in the Major's shirt, while the other was splayed at the small of his back, keeping him close.

Realizing that neither man had realized he was there, he quickly pulled the door closed, shutting it as quietly as he could. Then he nearly ran to his own room, pulse pounding in his ears as the sight replayed in his head like a skipping record.

It suddenly made so much sense, Trapper realized, safe in his room and well into the bottle of gin. The flirting, the winking, kissing Frank, the touching - good God the touching. Hawkeye was the most touchy-feely person he'd ever met, and not just with women. In fact, the image of his long surgeon's fingers pressing into the small of the Major's back caused him to shiver. Trapper could almost feel Hawkeye's hand in the exact same spot, after a long pull in the OR, or leading him back to the Swamp after a drunken night in the Officer's Club.

He'd always thought that Hawkeye was just affectionate, and enjoyed taking a joke as far as he could, secure enough in his own masculinity to know that people wouldn't assume his flirting with anyone that moved, Trapper included, was anything beyond a joke. But  _was_ it a joke? How was he supposed to behave around him now? Knowing that if he joked back Hawkeye might think that he was actually…

What if Hawkeye  _already_ thought that?

Trapper shook his head. This was Hawkeye for God's sake. The same guy he'd always been.

* * *

The two of them were so hung over the next day that the silence between them on the trip home didn't really seem all that strange. Hawkeye had managed to mumble, "Waitress?" to Trapper some at some point earlier, but Trapper had just grimaced and shook his head, and Hawkeye didn't press him any further.

Normally, the sight of Hawkeye's neck covered in hickies would have prompted Trapper to demand to hear of his friend's conquest, but his stomach turned every time he thought about what he'd walked in on. He remained mute on the subject, though he couldn't help but wonder what Hawkeye would have told him if he'd asked.

On the flight back from Tokyo, Hawkeye, who apparently didn't get much shut eye at all the night before, settled into his seat and fell asleep almost immediately. Trapper hated himself a little when he realized he was almost grateful for it, right up until the point where Hawkeye's head dipped and he somehow managed to slump his tall form over enough that he was using Trapper's shoulder as a pillow.

"Seriously?" Trapper muttered at him, trying to push him off. Hawkeye, however, was infamous for being able to sleep through just about anything, and Trapper eventually gave up.

"Did you have a good trip, sirs?" Radar asked, when he came to pick them up, back in the dust filled hell near Uijeongbu.

Trapper grunted noncommittally, so Hawkeye, who'd perked up immensely after his nap, was the one to answer. "Radar, I've never been so rested and recreated in my life." Trapper climbed into the back of the jeep and Hawkeye got in the passenger's seat. "If I hadn't been in a stupor for most of the morning I never would have let Trapper drag me back."

Trapper made a noise that was foreign to his own ears. It almost sounded like the high pitched "humph" that Frank tended to do whenever he interacted with the two of them. Apparently it surprised both Hawkeye and Radar as well, because they both turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, before Hawkeye turned his gaze back to Radar and shrugged.

"How about you, Captain McIntyre, sir?" Radar asked as he started the jeep.

Trapper shrugged. "It wasn't bad."

"Wasn't bad? Wasn't  _bad?"_ Hawkeye looked over his shoulder as Radar took off down the road like a maniac. "You strike out with one girl and you write off the whole trip as  _wasn't bad_?"

"I stand by my assessment," Trapper replied, crossing his arms.

"Wasn't bad," Hawkeye muttered, turning back around in mock indignation, leaving Trapper to stare at the love bite on the back of his neck.

For almost a week, Trapper avoided Hawkeye, which really wasn't easy without any wounded for a distraction. This left his friend bored and looking for entertainment, and Trapper was almost always the first one Hawkeye came to when looking for something to break up the tedious monotony of everyday camp life.

The one time Hawkeye could be counted on to leave him alone was when he had a date. So he lined up a bunch. Hawkeye didn't appear to find anything out of the ordinary with this, apparently thinking that his inability to land the Japanese waitress had affected Trapper's ego so badly that he needed to go on a nurse bender.

Finally, thankfully, (and Trapper would feel like an asshole for being grateful later) the wounded started pouring in. A push was on and going pretty poorly based on the casualties. They spent nearly thirteen hours in the OR, with Hawkeye bantering as usual, Frank and Margaret bitching as expected, and Henry ineffectively trying to keep the peace, as was tradition. The only thing that wasn't normal was how quiet Trapper was being. Hawkeye only mentioned it once, after trying and failing to get Trapper to join him in rousing rendition of "Chattanooga Choo Choo."

He finished with a patient then pulled off his gloves before coming over to Trapper under the guise of reviewing his work. "Everything okay?" he asked quietly. Trapper didn't look up at him, focusing on the intestines he was picking through.

One would think that the fact that all you could see of each other in the OR was the eyes would make it easier to hide your expression, but eyes  _were_  the windows to the soul and all that. Hawkeye Pierce's baby blues were the most expressive thing about him - which was really saying a lot considering every bit of him was expressive in one way or another. Trapper could practically feel the concern radiating off him, and he didn't want to see those eyes staring at him with barely concealed worry.

"Yeah," Trapper said, casually, plucking out a piece of shrapnel. "Fine."

Hawkeye lingered for a moment, but Klinger burst through the door in full nurse attire and called, "One for you, Captain Pierce!"

When it was all over they filed out of the OR, exhausted. Margaret and Frank were making eyes at one another, and sure enough, right after the head nurse said, "Good work, Doctors," and headed outside, Frank was making some excuse and disappearing right behind her.

Trapper watched them, lip quirked in amusement, and nearly jumped out of his skin at the feeling of a hand on the small of his back.

"The hell?!" he exclaimed, jerking away and looking at Hawkeye, who took a step back, blue eyes wide in surprise.

"Christ, Trapper, what's the matter with you?" Hawkeye asked, looking completely befuddled.

"You snuck up on me, that's what!" Trapper said, not knowing why he was suddenly so angry about it. It was a completely unreasonable reaction, he knew, but he couldn't seem to rein it in now.

"I'm sorry!" Hawkeye replied, starting to get defensive. Which, looking back on it, Trapper knew was fair. He really hadn't done anything to deserve being snapped at.

And yet. "What do you want?" The tone was unwelcoming, and Trapper shifted over to the other sink so he could scrub off the grime from surgery.

"Just looking to get my head bit off for no reason," Hawkeye snapped back. "Best way to wind down after thirteen straight hours of surgery." The man had the best bedside manner Trapper had ever seen, but his patience was reserved mostly for the patients. It took very little to get him riled up outside of post op. He turned on the sink next to Trapper and snatched up a bar of soap. It was amazing how good doctors were at angrily scrubbing their hands.

"Glad I could help," Trapper replied, grabbing a towel.

"Oh, sure," Hawkeye said sarcastically. "What are friends for, after all?"

"Invading personal space apparently," Trapper muttered in a way that was supposed to sound under his breath and still be loud enough to let Hawkeye hear every word.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Hawkeye asked, turning off the water and drying his hands.

Trapper tossed his towel into the laundry. "You're always touching everyone."

Hawkeye sounded exasperated. "So what?"

"So stop it," Trapper said. "I'm not a damn nurse!"

"What the heck's going on in here?" Henry asked, coming out of the OR with a nurse. He looked around, a bit confused as he took off his mask. "Oh. With the raised voices I figured Frank was here." He paused. "Wait a minute, did you guys stuff him in the laundry or something?"

"No, Henry," Hawkeye said, staring at Trapper. He honestly looked more confused by his behavior than anything else. Truth be told, Trapper wasn't entirely sure why he was acting this way either. "Trapper here's just worried about cooties."

"McIntyre," Henry said, shaking his head and pushing past them both to get to the sinks. "Don't be absurd. It's too sterile in there for cooties."

Trapper and Hawkeye's eyes met, and Hawkeye looked ready to start laughing, but Trapper decided in that moment that he wanted him to stay angry. It was easier to avoid someone when they're mad at you. So instead of laughing too, he just left without another word, door swinging behind him.

* * *

A day later Trapper walked into the Officers' Club, arm around Nurse Mitchell's shoulders. He'd successfully steered clear of Hawkeye since their fight yesterday, and he was feeling worse and worse about it. He didn't know why he was acting like this. What he'd seen in Tokyo had gotten into his head. He couldn't unsee it. Every time he closed his eyes the image was there, Hawkeye pressed into a wall by Major Broadshoulders and looking like he was enjoying every second of it.

He wasn't a homophobe. He'd helped that homosexual private, George Weston. He didn't care what people did in the privacy of their own beds.

So why was this so different? Because they slept in the same tent? Was he worried Hawkeye was going to try and molest him?

But deep down Trapper knew Hawkeye wouldn't do that. He wasn't that kind of person. So what was it?

The Officers' Club was nearly empty, but at a table in the corner was the very person he was trying to avoid. Hawkeye was alone, nursing a drink while watching Radar dance with Nurse Kellye and wearing an introspective sort of look. Introspective Hawkeye was usually not a good thing, at least in Trapper's experience. Too much time alone and Hawkeye's brain started to go to dark places. That's why he needed Trapper around to keep things light. Keep him cheery.

But if Trapper was avoiding him, who did he have? Some nurses, who Trapper didn't think he was actually even interested in? Frank Burns?

He sighed and leaned in to Nurse Mitchell. "Sweetheart, I'm real sorry but I just remembered I made plans with Hawkeye tonight."

The look she gave him was skeptical. "What about our date?"

"Rain check?" Trapper replied, flashing her a devilish grin.

"We'll see," she sniffed, before leaving him at the door.

Trapper watched her go, sighing again, then heading over to Hawkeye's table. Keen blue eyes were following him now, though Hawkeye looked more wary than pleased as Trapper approached.

"Buy you a drink, sailor?" Trapper asked, trying and failing not to grimace as he said the line.

"That looked painful," Hawkeye observed, sipping the amber liquid - scotch probably - from his glass.

"Felt painful, too," Trapper admitted. "Want another one?"

"You kidding? All those boys in post op got wounded so we can have the right to drink ourselves sick. What kind of monster would I be to say no?" Hawkeye said, knocking back the rest of his drink and sliding the glass to Trapper.

Yeah, he'd made the right call. Hawkeye was right at the corner of introspective and depression. He took the glass and went over to the bar, ordering them each another scotch. When he returned he took the seat across from Hawkeye.

They sat in silence for a bit, jukebox playing some tunes that Trapper had never heard of. Radar had probably picked them, the kid had weird taste.

It was Hawkeye who spoke up first. "You want to tell me what's going on?" he asked after a sip of his drink.

Trapper turned his glass on the table with his fingers, keeping his eyes on it instead of his friend. "Nothing really. Just. Working through some stuff."

"Working through some stuff?" Hawkeye sounded incredulous. "Trap, you've been avoiding me since Tokyo." Of course. Trapper thought he was being subtle about it, but of course Hawkeye noticed. "You nearly bit my head off the other day. And somehow I get the feeling it's something I did but I can't get you alone long enough to tell me what. It's driving me batty. Will you just tell me what I did so I can fix it?"

Trapper finished the rest of his drink in one long go. Then he looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them and leaned in to say, "I saw you, ah, giving that Major a physical. In Tokyo."

Hawkeye blinked. Trapper wasn't sure what kind of reaction he expected. Maybe some kind of panic that his secret was out. Instead, all he got was an unabashed, "And?"

" _And_?" Trapper repeated.

"Is there more to this story?" Hawkeye asked, looking genuinely curious.

"Does there need to be?" Trapper said.

"I don't get it," Hawkeye said.

"The hell, Hawk? You don't get it?" Trapper was starting to get mad again, but in order to keep his voice down he was practically hissing. "You don't  _get_  it? You never say a word, and I find out that way, and you don't  _get_  why I've been… distant?"

"I didn't think I was being particularly subtle about it," Hawkeye said with a shrug. "It's not like I've only ever flirted with women."

"So I was right. You  _were_  flirting with me," Trapper said, trying to ignore that he sounded about as paranoid as Frank tended to.

"Sure," Hawkeye said, as if this was an obvious fact that he wasn't one bit ashamed of. "You and Henry, and half the other men and women in this outfit. So what?"

"So what? I'm not a homosexual!" Trapper growled.

"Neither am I," Hawkeye said.

"You can't just act like I don't know now."

"Trapper, don't be obtuse." Hawkeye interrupted. "I haven't just been pretending with the nurses this whole time. I like women. I love women. I like all their soft bits. I like the way they smell. I like the way they play hard to get. I l _ove_  the way they pull my hair-"

"Then what-"

"I like the way men pull my hair too." He gave a wicked grin and waggled his eyebrows.

"This isn't funny!" Trapper snapped. "Every time you flirted with me, I thought you were joking."

"I was," Hawkeye said.

"What?"

"You're a staunch heterosexual, far as I've been able to tell," Hawkeye said. "It's like when I flirt with Father Mulcahy."

"Jesus." Trapper needed another drink.

"No, he's just a priest."

Trapper stood. "I'm getting another. You want another?"

Hawkeye shook his head. Trapper went up to the bar and ordered a double and took a long sip before returning. Hawkeye was looking introspective again. So much for being cheery.

"Is that why you got angry when I touched you?" Hawkeye asked as Trapper sat back down. He could almost see his mind clicking pieces of the puzzle together.

"It's just. You can't just flirt with people and be all touchy like that when they don't know you're. You know. I thought it was all a joke. How would I know?" Trapper wasn't even sure what he was trying to say, but he wondered if this was how Frank felt whenever he stuck his boot in his mouth.

Hawkeye's good humor seemed to leave him. "I'm 'you know'? Wow. What an enlightened viewpoint, mein Führer."

"Aw, come on, Hawk, that's not-"

Hawkeye abruptly set his drink down so hard some of the liquor sloshed over the side and onto his hand. "No." Trapper realized he'd seen the look his friend was wearing right now. It had never been directed at him before. This was the same set of the jaw he always got before he laid into Frank for being something less than human. "I'm not 'you know.' I'm a person. I'm the same person I've always been. Nothing about me has changed, besides your perception of who I am. If you can't handle it, that's your problem, not mine. I thought you of all people would understand."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Trapper asked. "I told you I'm not-"

"Not because I think you're homosexual," Hawkeye said, exasperated. "Because I thought you were my friend." Then he stood up, muttered, "Thanks for the drink" and walked out of the Officers Club.


	2. Chapter 2

The whole camp knew that Trapper and Hawkeye had had a fight. Trapper suspected Radar had spread the news after watching Hawkeye walk out on him in the Officer's Club. The kid was sweet, but he did have trouble keeping his mouth shut. It was bad enough not to be speaking to his best friend, but what was insult to injury was all the people who kept trying to give him couple’s counseling. They weren’t a damn couple. 

 

"Everybody has a rough patch now and then, Trapper," a sympathetic Nurse Able had said. 

 

Henry had been less concerned about their friendship and more concerned about poker. "Which one of you gets the game in the divorce?" he asked, puffing on a cigar. "I want to know if Pierce is getting all my money tonight or if I have a fighting chance."

 

And then of course there was Frank. Little worm that he was saw this as an opening to play enemy of my enemy. 

 

Trapper was returning from the shower when he nearly got a faceful of the Swamp’s door as Hawkeye stormed out, roaring over his shoulder: "Frank, I would eat my own khaki shorts while singing Yankee Doodle Dandy in falsetto before I'd confide a thing in you!"

 

As he turned back around he came face to face with Trapper staring at him, towel in hand. Hawkeye’s expression abruptly went from enraged to sarcastic. "Have fun, I'm sure you're next."

 

Trapper almost asked him what was going on, but Hawkeye stomped off toward Post-op before he could. 

 

Frank was sitting on his cot when he entered, and he looked up at him, putting on what Trapper figured he thought was an innocent expression. "I'm sure it was his fault," he said as he polished his boot. “Whatever happened with you two, I mean. He’s absolutely off his rocker. ” 

 

“Butt out, Frank before I give your nose a resection,” Trapper replied, stalking over to his cot and throwing his towel down. He picked up his razor, stepped over a pile of clothes and came to a stop in front of the mirror hanging on the pole in the middle of the tent. 

 

“Aw, come on, Trap,” Frank said, earning a sharp glare for the use of the more familiar version of his nickname. Frank hesitated, but forged on. “What happened, anyway?”

 

Trapper just rolled his eyes and began lathering on shaving cream.

 

Frank was quiet a moment, waiting for an answer that wasn’t coming. “Oh come on, you can tell me.” He tugged on his boot. “I always thought we could have been friends, you know. If Pierce hadn’t come in here and turned everyone against me. We were all getting along fine before he showed up.”

 

“He didn’t turn everyone against you, Frank,” Trapper said, looking at him in the mirror. “That was your personality.”

 

Frank let out a scoff that was mostly a whine. “I’m being serious! He’s a blight on this man’s army. He’s got no respect, and what’s worse is he drags everyone into his disgusting, perverted antics! Including you.”

 

Trapper turned around to glare at him. “I’m not drug into any antics I don’t want to be,” he said, pointing his razor at him for emphasis. 

 

“Oh yeah?” Frank asked. He stood, huffily putting his hands on his hips. It was a move his oldest daughter had used before and it seemed utterly absurd to see a grown man with no lips doing it. “Then what are you two fighting about? Huh?”

 

“You, Frank,” Trapper said, going back to shaving. “We can’t agree on which of us should get to deck you first.”

 

Another huff. “At least that’s less perverted than what he said,” Frank muttered, sitting back on his cot and pulling out some paper and a pen. 

 

Trapper just shook his head, continuing to shave. He couldn’t help himself though. “What’d he say?” 

 

“Humph. That you were both madly in love with me and fighting over who got to kiss me first,” Frank replied as his pen scribbled words on the paper. “Disgusting.”

 

Trapper’s hand skittered and he cut himself. He cursed under his breath and grabbed a roll of toilet paper. Even after all this, Hawkeye was making jokes like that?

 

“It’s almost a shame he isn’t a homosexual,” Frank continued, sniffing haughtily. “ _Then_ I could finally get rid of him once and for all. They wouldn’t be able to ignore that, no sir. Wouldn’t matter how good a surgeon he fools people into thinking he is.” Frank had stopped working on his letter and was staring dreamily into space, presumably imagining finally getting rid of Hawkeye once and for all. “And that kind of thing follows you right into your civilian life, you know. I heard of one guy who got discharged for it and his whole hometown knew just what a freak he was before he even made it back to the States. Hah.” 

 

“Frank, close your mouth before I break your jaw,” Trapper snapped. 

 

“Oh, nerts to you!” 

 

* * *

 

It was going on almost a week. With the exception of forced interactions, like the OR or the Swamp, Hawkeye and Trapper had spent almost no time together. When they did speak, the conversation was always clipped and to the point. The longer it went on the worse Hawkeye’s mood became, to the point he was snapping at just about everyone who tried to speak to him. It was amazing he hadn’t killed Frank yet. 

 

As a result, most of the camp seemed to be on Team Trapper. They were giving Hawkeye wide berth, which meant that at meals people would choose to sit with Trapper instead. Trapper was still invited to play poker or basketball. Trapper was the one people were coming to when they needed help with a medical issue.

 

This just made him feel worse. The longer this went on, the more isolated Hawkeye was becoming. And over what? Because he couldn’t reconcile that his best friend occasionally had sex with men? 

 

Hawkeye was waiting for an apology. Trapper knew that. This stalemate wasn’t going to break until Trapper broke it, because Hawkeye was possibly the most stubborn person he knew, next to maybe Klinger. And somewhere, beyond the all of the weird feelings that had him ignoring the most important person to him in Korea, Trapper knew that Hawkeye deserved that apology. What he had said that night in the Officer’s Club was right. He was the same person and Trapper should have been able to understand that. 

 

And yet, every time he thought about that night in Tokyo, his stomach twisted, and he found he couldn’t even look at him. So he kept his mouth shut. And Hawkeye waited. He was hurt, Trapper could tell, but he seemed to be channeling that into anger, and the cycle continued.  

 

“Supply hut,” Nurse Mitchell said to him as they left the mess tent, finally agreeing to continue their last broken date. “Seven o’clock.” 

 

“We’ll miss the movie,” Trapper said, but he was grinning, and he was making it more than obvious that that was not a concern for him. 

 

“Exactly.” She smiled before turning and heading for her tent. She was a minx with black hair, and curves in all the right places. Trapper was looking forward to the distraction. 

 

He made it to the supply hut at seven sharp. It was already dark outside, so he had to grope around to find the light switch. He was finally able to illuminate the hut and immediately stopped short at the sight of the wrong minx with black hair. Hawkeye, arm thrown over his eyes, was lying on the cot that was generally used for illicit purposes. 

 

“What--” 

 

At the sound of Trapper’s voice, Hawkeye lifted his arm and looked over, frowning in confusion at what was apparently an unexpected visitor. There was a bang and a click behind him, and Trapper whirled around in surprise, staring at the now shut supply door. 

 

“What the hell?” he said, trying to open it, but finding it stuck. 

 

“Sorry, Trapper!” It was nurse Mitchell, her voice muffled through the door.

 

“The nurses took a vote, and it’s time you two worked out whatever your problem is,” called a second voice. Nurse Able, maybe. 

 

“Hey, wait a minute.” It was Hawkeye. He’d gotten off the cot and approached the door. “Let us out of here.”

 

“Sorry, Hawkeye,” Able said. “You’ve been a real bear to be around lately, so until you two have a better attitude about things, you both better get comfy.” 

 

Trapper could hear giggling from through the door. “You’ve gotta be kidding!” he said, trying to push the door open again. 

 

“It’s locked,” Mitchell called. “See you in the morning!” 

 

“Hey!” Hawkeye yelled, nearly deafening Trapper. “Hey, you can’t do this - let us out!” 

 

“Yeah, this is a violation of our rights or something!” Trapper added. 

 

For a moment the two of them forgot they were barely speaking, and focused on banging on the door and trying to get the nurses, or anyone really, to let them out of the supply hut.

 

“How can nobody hear us?” Hawkeye said, after a good ten minutes yielded no results. 

 

Realization dawned on Trapper. “The movie.” 

 

Hawkeye groaned. “Great.” He seemed to give up on trying to escape, turning around and heading back over to the cot to take a seat. 

 

Trapper gave up as well, sliding down the door until he was sitting. Usually Hawkeye couldn’t go more than a thirty seconds without starting to babble on about something, so he waited. 

He wasn’t sure how long they sat in awkward silence, but, for once, it was Trapper who couldn’t hold out. 

 

“So which nurse got you?” he asked. “Able?”

 

Hawkeye looked up from the dust he’d been examining on the floor, confused. “What?” 

 

“Who lured you in here?” Trapper tried again. “Mitchell got me.” 

 

“Oh,” Hawkeye said. He shrugged. “I was just here.” 

 

“You were just here?” Trapper sounded dubious. Who just came to the supply hut to hang out alone? No one, that’s who. 

 

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “I was just here.”  

 

“I see.” 

 

“What does that mean?” Hawkeye immediately asked. 

 

“Nothing,” Trapper said. “It’s just not the type of place one usually comes alone, that’s all.” He hesitated, then continued on. “Were you meeting somebody else?” Hawkeye stared at him. “Like... someone besides a nurse?” 

 

“Yes, Trapper,” Hawkeye snapped. “You found me out. I was waiting for Frank for a little rendezvous. I know it’s taboo but that lack of a chin just drives me wild.”

 

“First of all, never give me that mental image again, I don’t think my brain can handle it,” Trapper said. “And secondly, you’re the one who was saying it was no big deal. Why are you getting all snippy at a perfectly legitimate question?” 

 

Hawkeye gazed at him a moment. Eventually he sighed. “I wasn’t meeting anyone.” He laid down on the cot, turning his back to Trapper. He could really be a petulant child at times. “It’s just a good place to be left alone. Been caught once or twice by a nurse, so they must have realized I’d be here.” 

 

Trapper had been wondering where Hawkeye’d been getting off to. More and more he hadn’t been in the Swamp, but Trapper deliberately hadn’t put too much thought into it, mostly because he knew that it was his fault. He didn’t know what to say, so he fell quiet, leaning his head back against the door and closing his eyes. 

 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but at some point he must have dozed, because he found himself back in Hawkeye’s room in Tokyo. This time he didn’t leave, he just stood there in the door, frozen while he watched Broadshoulders kissing Hawkeye’s neck, drawing a moan from him. It was loud, just like everything Hawkeye tended to do. As he watched, Hawkeye’s eyes opened and caught Trapper’s gaze. Neither of them looked away from each other, even as the Major’s hands moved, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Hawkeye’s pants. 

 

“Join us, Trap?” Hawkeye asked. 

 

And then, in the way that only dreams can do, Trapper realized that _he_ was Broadshoulders, pressing up against his friend, Hawkeye’s hand on the small of his back. 

 

“Oh, they’ll believe me now!” It was Frank, who was standing next to them, grinning and taking pictures. “You’ll both be discharged!” he cried gleefully, laughing his high pitched laugh. “What a day for Frank Burns! I’ll be rid of you and everyone will know!”

 

Next to Frank was a pretty blonde woman, soft features twisted in horror. His wife. “John, how could you?”

 

“Trapper! Hey, Trap, wake up!” His eyes snapped open and his vision was filled with worried blue eyes and dark hair. Hawkeye was crouched in front of him. He could feel his friend’s hands on his shoulders, anchoring him tightly to reality.  “You were having a nightmare.” For a moment he must have been stuck between the dream and the waking world, because he had the insane desire to lean in and close what little distance there was between them and kiss him. 

 

As soon as he fully realized what he was thinking, Trapper pushed Hawkeye away from him, hard.  “Don’t touch me, you pervert!” It was out of his mouth before he even really knew what he was saying. Hawkeye, still crouching, lost his balance, and fell backwards into a supply shelf, which rattled from the impact, teetering. It didn’t tip, but several light bulbs fell to the floor and shattered, fortunately after Hawkeye had landed on his ass.

 

Then it was silent as they stared at each other, Trapper breathing heavily from the dream and  Hawkeye’s eyes wide in surprise, but slowly narrowing. 

 

"Attention all personnel! Incoming casualties! Come and get ‘em!"

 

The two surgeons looked up at the ceiling of the hut as if they could see the speaker. 

 

Trapper returned his gaze to Hawkeye, then slowly stood without a word. Hawkeye moved to do the same and in the silence Trapper heard his intake of breath. He'd put his hand down to push himself up and forgotten about the lightbulbs. 

 

 

* * *

 

"Okay you guys, you want to tell me what's going on?" Henry asked, pouring three scotches from his private store. 

 

Henry had told the two that he wanted to see them in his office after Hawkeye had arrived to Pre-op bleeding and had Henry patch him up instead of Trapper. This was  followed by several hours of surgery in which neither of them had spoken except to ask for instruments and where even the nurses were unusually quiet.

 

The nurses knew they couldn't leave two surgeons trapped in a shed when there were wounded about to pour in. They were probably hoping to find two friends again, but they were sorely disappointed to find neither man looking happy and Hawkeye cradling his hand. Fortunately, it hadn’t been too bad of a cut, and Henry had wrapped it up and Hawkeye was operating without much apparent issue.

 

Now it was nearly dawn, and Henry slid a drink to both of them. They were each in a chair in front of his desk. "Nothing, Henry," Hawkeye said. "Just a long day."

 

"You two have been having a long day for the last few weeks," Henry said. "Now, I can't have two of my best surgeons at each other's throats, so let's have it. What's the problem?" 

 

Hawkeye drank his scotch like it was a shot. "Well, Henry, sometimes you think you know a guy, and it turns out you were about as wrong as you could be."

 

Trapper was just staring at his drink. On top of feeling like the shittiest friend in the world, he was still trying to forget about that dream.

 

“Look you, guys,” Henry said, exasperated. That was a default setting for Henry. Anytime something required some thought, or couldn’t be solved by signing a form Radar handed him, Henry usually became exasperated. It was generally an endearing quality. Right now it was less so. “Nobody’s happy here, all right? We’ve all just got to make the best of it. You two are best friends. I’m sure whatever it is that has you both all lathered up is going to pass and you’ll be back to being one big pain in my keister instead of two separate ones.” He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of his drink. “And if you could just do that sooner rather than later it’d be a big help to me, you know? Trying to deal with the army is bad enough.” 

 

He didn’t seem too pleased when neither one would look at the other. 

 

The doors opened and Radar came in, slip of paper in his hand. “Colonel, sir? Battalion aid just called, they’ve got an injured doctor and they need some help right away, sir.”

 

Henry sat up straight. “Are there more casualties coming in, Radar?” 

 

“Yes, sir, word is the enemy attacked unexpectedly. Choppers’ll start coming in soon. Maybe an hour.”

 

Henry sighed, finished his drink, and stood. “All right, Radar. Get Burns here on the double so we can figure out who’s going to Batallion aid. Then alert the nurses and supply, make sure we’re ready for the next wave.” 

 

Simultaneously, Radar said, “Major Burns is on his way, sir, and I’ll alert the nurses and supply to be standing by.” 

 

“Thank you, Radar. Dismissed.” Henry rubbed at his eyes as Radar left the office, the door swinging behind him. 

 

“All right boys, I know how much we all love drawing straws for Battalion Aid, but it’s not like we ever get any volunteers. Pierce, you went last time, so you’ll be exempt--” 

 

“I’ll go,” Hawkeye said, setting down his glass and standing as well. 

 

Trapper finally looked at him, incredulous. “You already went.” 

 

“Pierce, he’s right, it’s someone else’s turn,” Henry said, clearly a bit taken aback at getting a volunteer.

 

“I said I’ll go,” Hawkeye replied. 

 

Frank sped into Henry’s office, already complaining. “Sir, I feel as though my leadership is needed here, not at Battalion Aid. Not to mention I have a wife who--” 

 

“Can it, Frank,” Henry interrupted. He eyed Hawkeye, who, for once, actually looked serious. He sighed. “Hawkeye volunteered.”

 

“Henry--” Trapper didn’t like this. But Hawkeye had already turned and headed for the door. 

 

“Be careful, Pierce,” Henry said. 

 

Hawkeye just gave a brief wave over his shoulder. Frank started prattling on about how it was nice to know his talents were appreciated and Trapper set his untouched drink on Henry’s desk and went after Hawkeye. The camp was quiet. Most people had gone to bed, though the sun was slowly rising, casting everything in a dull grey light.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, marching into the Swamp, door banging closed behind him. 

 

Hawkeye was tossing some extra clothes in his bag. He dropped to the floor to grab his helmet from under his cot. “This is called packing,” Hawkeye replied, pushing himself to his feet and sticking his helmet on his head. 

 

“I mean volunteering to go up to Battalion Aid,” Trapper replied. “Are you crazy?” 

 

“Crazy? Am I crazy?” Hawkeye said, with a slightly manic grin as he shoved some socks in his bag. “I checked my sanity on the flight here and they lost my luggage.” 

 

“Hawkeye, come on - go back to Henry and tell him you unvolunteer,” Trapper said, even though he knew that meant there was a chance _he_ might have to go in his stead. 

 

“Why?” Hawkeye asked. “What reason have I got to hang around here at the moment?” He closed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “The front’ll be a welcome reprieve from whatever this has been.” 

 

“Hawk…” Trapper began. Hawkeye paused and looked at him, maybe sensing something about his tone. “I’m sorry, all right? I was...  I was half asleep. I didn’t mean to push you.” 

 

Hawkeye remained where he was, bag on his shoulder, looking at him expectantly for a few moments. Trapper knew he needed to apologize for more than shoving him. He needed to apologize for what he’d said. He needed to tell Hawkeye that it didn’t matter to him. That he was still his best friend. But the words stuck in his throat. He watched Hawkeye’s expression grow disappointed when it was clear that was all he would be saying. 

 

There was a knock on the door. “Captain Pierce, sir?” Radar said, peeking his head in. “Hawkeye? I have a jeep ready for you.”

 

“Thanks, Radar,” Hawkeye said. Radar disappeared and the door closed. 

 

“Be careful,” Trapper said, though the words felt insignificant, all things considered. 

 

Hawkeye just nodded before turning and leaving. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

There was one thing Trapper had noticed about Hawkeye being at Battalion Aid: the wounded came in in better shape than usual. Men with wounds that might have normally died in transit got to them alive, and Trapper once found a guy with a note tucked under his arm detailing what Hawkeye had been able to do for his chest wound before packing him off. It must have killed him not to be able to operate in earnest when he was down there. The meatball surgery they had to do here was frustrating enough, but at Battalion Aid it was all about stabilizing and getting people out the door. 

 

The wounded eventually slowed to a trickle that evening, and Trapper was having trouble remembering what sleep was. He stumbled back to the Swamp alone. Frank had Post-op duty since he'd managed to commandeer a couple of hours for a nap halfway through the surgery session, probably saving countless lives by not operating on them.

 

He collapsed onto his cot, too tired to even pour himself a drink. The post surgery belt wasn't the same without Hawkeye anyway. 

 

His dreams were strange again, and more than once he was back in that hotel room in Tokyo, sometimes watching, sometimes participating, and once working frantically on Hawkeye, who was bloodied and full of mortar fragments. 

 

"Trapper?" 

 

"You'll be all right, Hawk. Don't worry, I've got you." But he wasn’t all right. There was blood everywhere, and nothing Trapper did was stopping it. It poured over his hands. “Listen, Hawk. Listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” But Hawkeye wasn’t responding. 

 

"Captain McIntyre, sir?"

 

Trapper jerked abruptly to consciousness, feeling no more rested than he had before going to sleep. 

 

"What is it Radar?" he asked, sitting up so quickly that the young man had to take a step back to avoid Trapper's head cracking him in the chin. It was light out, sun streaming in through the screen. His eyes fell on the empty cot across from him. “Where’s Hawkeye?”

 

Radar adjusted his glasses. “Oh, he’s not back yet, sir. The roads between us are under heavy mortar fire. It wasn’t safe for him to leave.” 

 

“Mortar fire? He’s all right though, right?” Trapper asked. “You talked to him?”

 

“No, sir. The phones at the aid station are out,” Radar said, a bit nervously. “But I’m sure he’s fine.” He hesitated. “Sir, I, uh. Sorry I had to wake you, but you’re due in Post-op.”

 

Trapper was starting to feel sick. It wasn’t that he believed in anything stupid like premonitions. But they were at war. His dream had been a manifestation of a very real danger, and the idea of something happening to Hawkeye before he could make things right between them was weighing heavily on him. And that was ignoring the fact that he’d once again had dreams about... 

 

Well. 

 

He couldn’t really think about that. One problem at a time. 

 

“It’s fine, Radar,” Trapper said, reaching for a boot. “I’ll be there in a sec.” 

 

"Yes, sir," Radar said, nodding and heading for the door. He stopped. "Trapper? Can I ask you a question?"

 

"Sure, Radar, I'd love some coffee," Trapper said, tugging on his other boot. 

 

"Not _that_ ," Radar said. 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"I was just, uh. Well.” Radar fiddled with the clipboard in his hand. “I was just wondering why you and Hawkeye were so mad at each other lately.”

 

Trapper stood, stretching. “It’s a long story, Radar.” That’s what made this even harder. He couldn’t talk about it with anyone without putting Hawkeye at risk. All it would take was one wrong person to find out and Hawkeye’d be going stateside in disgrace.

 

“Yeah, well,” Radar said, voice slightly high pitched. It was the way he sounded when he was mad but still mindful he was speaking to an officer. “With all due respect, sir, I think it stinks.” 

 

“So do I,” Trapper admitted. 

 

“I mean,” Radar continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “You two guys are best friends, you know? Seeing you fighting is just, well, unnatural. It’s bringing down the whole camp, sir. And I feel real bad for Captain Pierce. He’s acting mad, but I can tell he’s more sad than mad.”

 

“I know, Radar,” Trapper said with a sigh. “And I’ll be honest, it’s mostly my fault. Look, I’ll talk to him when he gets back, all right?”

 

“Oh,” Radar said. “Well good.” 

 

Now Trapper just had to figure out what it was he needed to say. 

 

* * *

 

"Any word on Pierce?" Margaret asked as she and Frank joined Trapper and Henry in the mess tent to eat something the kitchen was trying to pass off as lunch. 

 

“Nothing yet,” Henry replied, setting down his coffee mug. Trapper could tell he was doing his best not to look too concerned. “There’s still a lot of shelling in the area and the phones are down. I Corps said they haven’t been able to get a replacement in, let alone get Pierce out.” 

 

“Maybe if we’re lucky they’ll just transfer him there,” Frank said cheerfully, smacking a ketchup bottle and ignoring the icy glare Trapper shot him. 

 

“ _Frank_ ,” Margaret said, surprising all of them with an admonishing tone. “That’s a terrible thing to say.” 

 

“Oh, come on, Margaret, I was only joking,” Frank said as he picked up his fork. 

 

She gave him a look and he fell quiet, huffily eating his meal. It was only then that Trapper remembered that Margaret had gone to the front with Hawkeye once. When they had come back there seemed to be a camaraderie between them that certainly hadn’t been there when they’d left. Even now, despite their differences and the fact that Margaret usually looked like she wanted to slap him, they both still seemed to have something of a mutual respect for one another. Trapper had thought maybe there had been some hanky panky while they were away, but Hawkeye had assured him there hadn’t been, explaining that they were too cold and exhausted to do anything but try to sleep when the shelling wasn’t too loud. 

 

That’s where Hawkeye was now. Stuck as bombs dropped around him, without even Margaret for company. The fact that Margaret, the only one among them who had seen an aid station first hand, was clearly worrying for him wasn’t really making Trapper feel much better about it. 

 

He lost his appetite suddenly, standing and picking up his tray. 

 

“Where are you going?” Henry asked. 

 

“For a walk,” Trapper replied. 

 

He wasn’t sure where he was headed. When he made it outside he just started walking, hands shoved in his pockets. He’d come to the decision to head for Rosie’s right when Father Mulcahy emerged from his tent and got a good look at him. 

 

“Trapper?” he said, tone gentle as always. “Is everything all right, my son?” 

 

Trapper hesitated, but he’d really never been one for sharing, even with a priest. “Sure Father, everything’s fine.”

 

Father Mulcahy seemed doubtful. “Would you like to come in? I was given a bottle of whiskey by a patient who was going home, and I certainly can’t drink it all on my own.”

 

Trapper almost turned him down, but the priest looked so earnest. He smiled slightly. “How can I say no to that face?” Trapper asked. 

 

Father Mulcahy laughed and opened the door to his tent, gesturing Trapper inside. “I practiced puppy dog eyes in seminary school. Best in my class.” 

 

Trapper took a seat on Mulcahy’s cot as the Father pulled out two tumblers and the whiskey. “How are you, Trapper?” he asked, attention on pouring. He handed a glass to Trapper and took a seat at his desk chair. “You seem troubled.”

 

“I’m all right, Father. Really.” They both took a sip of the whiskey at the same time. “At least, I was,” Trapper said, wrinkling up his nose. “That’s just terrible.”

 

“Yes, well,” Mulcahy said, coughing. “It’s the thought that counts, I suppose.” He set his glass down on the desk. 

 

“It’s almost as good as the paint thinner Hawk and I make,” Trapper said. 

 

“You two do have quite the way with distilling,” Father Mulcahy agreed. “Do we know when he’ll be back?” 

 

Trapper braved another sip of whiskey. “Soon as the shelling stops, I guess.” 

 

“Oh my,” the Father said. “I pray it’ll be sooner rather than later.” 

 

“Yeah,” Trapper replied absently, starting to get lost in thought. 

 

“I’m certain he’ll be fine, Trapper, though it’s natural to worry.” 

 

“He went to get away from me.” Trapper wasn’t sure what made him say it. Father Mulcahy just had that way about him. He could disarm you so quickly that you were spilling your guts before you even knew what happened. 

 

The Father leaned forward in his chair a bit, sure to give Trapper his full attention. “What makes you say that?”

 

“I don’t think it’s much of a secret we haven’t been getting along, Father,” Trapper said. “I said some shi-- excuse me, uh. Some terrible things. To him.”

 

Father Mulcahy was one of the few people he knew who could look sympathetic without making you feel like he was pitying you. Trapper had always liked that about him. “These are trying times, Trapper. Patience will be lost and mistakes will be made. But you and Hawkeye have an inspiring friendship. If you apologize I have no doubt he’ll forgive you.”

 

“I don’t know, Father,” Trapper said.

 

Mulcahy gave him an encouraging smile. “I haven’t told either of you this, but your friendship with Hawkeye always makes me think of a passage from the book of Ecclesiastes. Let’s see, how does it go exactly...” He looked up at the ceiling of his tent as he considered the words. 

 

“‘Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.’” He reached out and patted Trapper’s shoulder. “I don’t think either of you wants to lose your friendship. Remember that and have faith.”

 

* * *

 

After Father Mulcahy’s tent, Trapper decided that continuing on to Rosie’s was a good idea. While his talk with the priest did alleviate some of his fears about his friend not forgiving him, it unfortunately gave him more time to devote to worrying about his other two Hawkeye related problems. 

 

There was still no word from Battalion Aid. As far as anyone knew, Hawkeye remained stuck at the front. Hopefully in one piece. 

 

Trapper had never been to the front. Selfishly, he was grateful for this. It did, however, leave him with a bit of a void when he tried to picture just what Hawkeye was dealing with. He was pretty sure he was somehow both imagining it far more horrible than reality and yet not even close to as horrible as it actually was.

 

He kept seeing the image of Hawkeye from his dream - blood everywhere, while he tried uselessly to fix him. 

 

And then of course were the _other_ images from his dreams. How he kept ending up back in that hotel room. How he kept finding himself playing the role of Major Broadshoulders in some kind of play in his mind. 

 

His subconscious was really doing a number on him. 

 

He left Rosie’s around ten. It was dark as he crossed the road back into the camp and made his way to the Swamp. He could see the light was on, and almost diverted to the Officer’s Club, not in the mood to deal with Frank, but he was tired of drinking alone. He was wondered if Hawkeye was too. 

 

Pushing open the door to the Swamp, he pulled to an abrupt stop at the sight of Hawkeye in blood soaked fatigues, sitting in his favorite chair. He was holding a martini glass with one hand and resting his forehead in the palm of the other. His eyes were closed, but his expression was far too troubled for him to be asleep. Rarely had Trapper seen him look quite so vulnerable, his mask of humor and cynicism gone. 

 

“Hawk!” Trapper said, crossing the distance between them and sitting on Hawkeye’s cot, hands immediately going for his blood stained clothes. The image from his dream flashed through his mind. He had to find the injury. 

 

Hawkeye started, spilling some of his martini and looking wildly at Trapper before seeming to remember where he was. And just like that, Trapper watched the mask slide back on. “Trying to undress me, Trap?” he said with a smirk. “Now who’s the pervert?”

 

“Shut up,” Trapper replied, trying to lift up his shirt and check his abdomen. “Where are you hurt?”

 

“Hey, knock it off, I’m easy, but I’m not that easy,” Hawkeye said. It was a joke but there was definitely some residual anger there, words rattling sharply off his tongue as he batted at Trapper’s hands. 

 

Trapper was insistent though, still trying to assess how bad he was. 

 

“Trapper, seriously, stop groping me.” Hawkeye said, trying to twist away from him. “It’s not mine!”

 

Trapper paused, blinking up at his face. “Who’s is it?” 

 

“A Private. I don’t know his name.” Hawkeye downed the rest of his drink. “Couldn’t find his dog tags after he blew up in front of me.” As Trapper’s heart finally stopped beating in his ears, he was able to make out the slur in Hawkeye’s words. He wondered how long he’d been back, drinking alone while Trapper had been at Rosie’s doing the same. 

 

“Come on,” Trapper said, after gazing at him for a moment. “You need to get out of those clothes.”

 

“And you wonder why I flirt with you,” Hawkeye said, grinning drunkenly. “When you set me up with material like that.”

 

“Knock it off, Hawk,” Trapper snapped. It wasn’t joking about the flirting that bothered him. It was how he was pretending everything was okay, when Trapper could sense Hawkeye was on the edge of losing it. He took hold of Hawkeye’s jacket and started to pull it off his shoulder. 

 

“Ow, ow, easy!” Hawkeye said, grimacing in pain. 

 

“What the hell?” Trapper asked, as his finger poked through a bloody hole in the green material. “Hawkeye, you said the blood wasn’t yours!” 

 

“I said _most_ of it wasn’t mine,” Hawkeye retorted. 

 

“No, you did not,” Trapper growled. 

 

“I didn’t?” Hawkeye said, head tilting thoughtfully. “Well I meant to.” 

 

"Damnit, Hawkeye, let me see." Trapper tugged at his jacket again, gentler this time. 

 

"It's just a graze," Hawkeye said, but he didn't fight him on it, wincing a bit as he moved his arm to slide the jacket off. "I already looked at it. I'm a doctor, you know."

 

"I think I heard that somewhere," Trapper replied. Hawkeye's khaki t-shirt sleeve was covered in blood too, and for a moment Trapper began to worry that Hawkeye had underplayed the injury. But when he got a good look at it, he realized Hawkeye was correct. It was just a graze on the side of his shoulder that had bled a decent amount. "Come on, let's get you patched up."

 

"Will I make it, doc?" Hawkeye asked. 

 

"We'll see. Might be touch and go." Trapper stood and took Hawkeye’s martini glass from his hand, setting it by the still. Then, taking hold of his uninjured arm, he slowly pulled him to his feet. Hawkeye teetered, but Trapper put an arm around his waist to keep him steady. “Come on, I gotcha.”

 

He grabbed Hawkeye’s robe as an afterthought, carrying it over an arm as he maneuvered his friend through the camp. Hawkeye was surprisingly compliant and quiet considering how utterly drunk he was. If Trapper hadn’t had his arm around him he would have gone face first into the dirt about half a dozen times. His buzz from Rosie's was all but gone after walking in and seeing Hawkeye covered in blood, so he was able to get them to the exam room without much incident. Luckily, whoever was on patrol must have been in a different area, so they didn’t end up causing a camp-wide panic about the state of Hawkeye.

 

Hawkeye was singing under his breath as Trapper settled him on an exam table.

 

“What song’s that?” Trapper asked, putting Hawkeye’s robe next to him and going over to the cabinet to collect the supplies he needed. 

 

“That, Trapper John, is It’s Only a Paper Moon,” Hawkeye informed him. “Made famous by the breathtaking Ella Fitzgerald.” He started singing again, though a bit louder, so Trapper could make out some of the lyrics. “It’s a Barnum and Bailey world, just as phony as it can be.”

 

“Sounds kind of depressing.” Trapper returned to the table, setting his supplies down and pulling on a pair of gloves. 

 

Hawkeye lifted a finger, as if asking Trapper to wait, and continued singing. “But it wouldn’t be make believe, if you believed in me.” He had a nice voice when he wasn’t singing obnoxiously. He was swaying side to side, but Trapper wasn’t sure if that was from the music or the alcohol. 

 

“Okay, sit still, Ella,” Trapper said, picking up a pair of scissors. Hawkeye stopped singing and gripped the edge of the table, holding himself still. Trapper started at the sleeve and cut off Hawkeye’s bloody shirt. He tried to focus on the wound and just the wound, as a shirtless Hawkeye was an uncomfortable reminder of his dreams. The lack of talking from his patient made him feel even more awkward. 

 

“You were right,” Trapper said, trying to break the silence. “Just a graze. Probably not even bad enough for a Purple Heart.”

 

“I have enough costume jewelry anyway,” Hawkeye said.

 

Trapper set to work cleaning the wound. “Might need stitches though. I'll see when I'm finished disinfecting it." Hawkeye just nodded. Trapper waited to see if he'd say anything more, but when silence fell between them he decided to keep him talking. "What happened?” 

 

“Shelling stopped, so I came home," Hawkeye said, shrugging his good shoulder. "Caught some sniper fire on the way.”

 

He seemed so nonchalant, but Trapper noticed the tenseness in his muscles and how tightly Hawkeye was gripping the table. 

 

"And the blood?" Trapper prompted gently. Hawkeye was a champion of internalizing. He needed to get things out or they ate away at him. 

 

Hawkeye was quiet for a long moment. "A kid at the aid station. Just barely eighteen. He was on a litter on the back of a jeep, and I was looking him over. We were chatting, you know? He was from New Hampshire. He'd been to Crabapple Cove.” He sucked in a breath as Trapper added more disinfectant to his shoulder. Trapper was sure it stung like a bitch. “He just had a superficial leg wound; he'd have been fine if he'd made it here,” Hawkeye continued. He was staring straight ahead, making eye contact with the wall. “Next thing I knew one of the medics was pulling me away and shells were falling. I like to think I'm a decent surgeon, but. No one can put that many pieces back together."

 

Trapper paused, hand hovering above his shoulder, wondering just how many pieces of Hawkeye would need to be put back together after the war. 

 

“We’ve all got the ones who haunt us,” Trapper said eventually. He wasn’t the guy people came to when they needed comfort. He hadn’t been back home, and he really wasn’t here. Patients found comfort in his jokey bedside manner, and Hawkeye apparently found comfort in his disrespect and shenanigans. But when it came to really talking out feelings? Trapper would sooner avoid it. 

 

“Right,” Hawkeye said, closing his eyes and taking a breath. 

 

“You need a few stitches,” Trapper told him, picking up a syringe. “I’ll give you a local.” 

 

“Cross stitch something nice on me,” Hawkeye replied. “Home Sweet Home, maybe.” 

 

“I usually leave the crafts to you,” Trapper said, giving him the shot and picking up the 4-0 silk. 

 

“Mm.” Hawkeye murmured. Exhaustion was starting to hit him, Trapper could tell. The natural adrenaline had worn off, and alcohol could have a lullaby affect. He would know, he’d used it as a sleep aid a time or two himself. 

 

“Stay with me, Hawk,” Trapper said. “Won’t be much longer. Sing me another song.” 

 

“You sing me a song,” Hawkeye replied, opening his eyes and looking over his shoulder, startling Trapper at the sudden closeness of his face. “It’s the least you can do.” 

 

And there it was. With the immediate medical concerns, Trapper had almost been able to forget about the rest of the problems hanging between them. 

 

“Turn around,” Trapper said, nodding at him to face forward. Hawkeye complied. After another moment of silence, Trapper added, “How about the ‘Sorry I’m an Asshole’ blues?” Hawkeye snorted and Trapper had to pause his work so he didn’t accidentally stab him with a needle. “Hold still, will you?” 

 

“Don’t make me laugh, then.”

 

They fell quiet again as Trapper continued his stitching. He waited until he had tied off and cut the silk to speak again. “Look, it doesn’t matter to me what, or uh, who you do. You’re right. You’re still you. My problems were with me, not you.” He taped a bandage on top of the wound to keep it clean, then busied himself with cleaning up, not making eye contact.

 

“Uh huh,” Hawkeye said, somewhat doubtfully. 

 

Trapper could feel his eyes on him as he walked over to throw out the bloody cotton and t-shirt. He was avoiding eye contact as he removed his gloves and trashed them. He stopped at the supply cabinet, then returned to the table with a couple of pain pills and an antibiotic. “Here. Take these.”

 

“You know what pisses me off the most?” Hawkeye said suddenly, taking the pills from him and dry swallowing them. “What a narcissistic, arrogant, jackass you are.” 

 

That caught Trapper by surprise and he realized Hawkeye was suddenly glaring at him. It was like he’d been sitting on this the whole time, and now that Trapper had opened the can of worms Hawkeye was going to dump it on his head. 

 

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Trapper asked.

 

“Admit it, Trapper. The main thing you’ve been worried about was whether or not I’ve secretly been wanting to play doctor with you all this time,” Hawkeye snapped, picking up his robe. 

 

All right, so. Yes, that was true. “Look, there’s more to it than that--” Like his dreams. Those vivid, erotic, confusing dreams. 

 

“What makes you think I’d be attracted to you even if _you_ were interested?” Hawkeye demanded. 

 

“Are you saying you aren’t?” Trapper asked, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at him disbelievingly. “Because you gotta admit you flirt with me a _lot_.” 

 

“I flirt with everyone! It’s like a tick. I can’t help it,” Hawkeye said, gingerly trying to shrug on his robe. “I flirt with Frank, Trapper. _Frank._ ”

 

“So - what,” Trapper said, an odd twisting back in his stomach as he once again imagined Hawkeye and Major Broadshoulders. “I’m not your type or something?” 

 

“No.” Hawkeye was struggling to to pull on his robe with his bad arm, but between the injury and the drunkenness he was completely failing. 

 

“Well.” Trapper finally took pity on him and stepped up to the table, holding the sleeve out for him.  “That’s that then. Everything can go back to normal.” 

 

“Right,” Hawkeye said, sliding off the table and standing. He swayed a bit, and Trapper’s hands took hold of his hips to steady him. “Exactly.” 

 

They were standing too close together for normal. They were staring at each other too long for normal. Trapper’s hands were still on Hawkeye’s hips, which was becoming normal in his dreams, but not normal for real life. 

 

No. All of this was abnormal. And at that moment, Trapper decided that abnormal seemed okay. 

 

He closed the distance between them, and later he wouldn’t even be able to claim Hawkeye initiated it, because his friend started to pull back in surprise and Trapper had to chase him. Their lips collided. Hawkeye tasted like gin and he desperately needed a shave; this wasn’t the soft pliable kisses he was used to from the nurses or his wife. This was something more intense, built out of something far beyond a simple mutual attraction. It was like a fire had ignited in Trapper’s gut, intensifying as Hawkeye’s surprise gave way to acquiescence, and his hands gripped Trapper’s upper arms, caught somewhere between pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

 

He wasn’t sure how long it really went. Probably a few seconds in all actuality. He was just contemplating deepening the kiss when Hawkeye’s hands seemed to make a decision and pushed him back. Hawkeye now had him at arm’s length, wincing a little as he pulled at his stitches and still a bit unsteady on his feet. 

 

“Oh, no,” Hawkeye said, blue eyed gaze locked on Trapper. “No way.” 

 

“What?” Trapper asked, mind a bit foggy and stomach doing weird somersaults. He was wondering if he could do that again. He should do that again. 

 

“I’m not here for you to experiment with,” Hawkeye said, fingers still digging into Trapper’s arms. 

 

“That’s… what? Wait. What?” Was he babbling? He might be babbling. 

 

“You saw something in Tokyo, you got curious, and who else would you try it with?” Hawkeye said. 

 

“That’s not--” 

 

“What do you think will happen here?” Hawkeye asked. “At best, we fool around, you realize you made a huge mistake, and then you never speak to me again because that’s all you’ll be able to see when you look at me.”

 

“Hawk--”

 

“ _No_ , Trapper,” Hawkeye said. “I’ve played this game before. Sex isn’t worth a friendship. It’s not.” He was shaking his head, and Trapper realized with sudden alarm that Hawkeye’s eyes were wet. “I’m hanging on by a thread in this place, and that thread is you. You’ve got to know that.” 

 

Trapper swallowed, realizing just how awful the last few weeks really must have been for Hawkeye. “I…” He licked his lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Forget it, all right? It never happened.” 

 

Hawkeye seemed to deflate, in some kind of combination of relief and exhaustion, and he finally let go of Trapper, leaning back against the exam table instead. “I’d really like to go home now.” 

 

“Yeah, of course, let’s get you to the Swamp,” Trapper said. 

 

“Not the Swamp, Crabapple Cove. Just mail me there, Cash On Delivery. My dad’s good for it.”


	4. Chapter 4

"What's wrong with you, McIntyre?" Margaret asked a couple weeks later.

 

Things had returned to normal after Trapper and Hawkeye talked. Hawkeye had accepted his apology and the two of them hadn't spoken of the kiss since. Trapper wasn't entirely sure Hawkeye even remembered it. He’d probably drank half of the still before Trapper had come home to find him.

 

"What do you mean?" Trapper asked, tilting his head in confusion.

 

"You're flushed," she said.

 

Okay, so maybe things weren't _entirely_ back to normal.

 

"Do you have a fever? Oh, come here," she said, reaching up to feel his forehead. Margaret was the only nurse he knew who could be both concerned about and irritated with you at the same time.

 

He pulled out of her reach. Fortunately she was shorter than him. "I'm fine."

 

The truth of the matter was Hawkeye had just left the mess tent, winking after a crack about meeting Trapper in the supply hut to “get down to business” (they had inventory duty later). Trapper was flushed because he was blushing. Like a damn school girl.

 

“If you’re sick, we need to know about it so you don’t go around infecting the entire camp, Captain,” Margaret snapped, with all the bedside manner of a snake. She was trying to reach his forehead again.

 

“I’m not sick, Margaret,” Trapper said as he bat her hand away.

 

“Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t come crying to me if it turns out you are.”

 

“And steal Frank’s thunder?” Trapper said. “I’m sure no one cries to you like he does.”

 

“Ugh! How _dare_ you!” Margaret pushed through the mess tent door, letting it slam behind her.

 

This was becoming a problem. After the night in the exam room Trapper had tried to convince himself that Hawkeye had been right. That he was just curious after what he had seen in Tokyo and in a fit of crazy he’d thought to experiment.

 

But it had been weeks and the dreams weren’t letting up. In fact, they were getting worse. More than once he had woken up in the middle of the night and had to take matters into his own hands. Literally. And on those occasions he’d really try to think of a beautiful woman. Lieutenant Dish, or Baker, even his wife. But inevitably, frustratingly, it was always Hawkeye that his mind returned to before he was through.

 

He felt disgusting for thinking of Hawkeye this way. It was wrong. Not just because he was heterosexual, but because Hawkeye was his friend. His friend who had already made it very clear that Trapper wasn’t his type. His friend who wasn’t the least bit interested in him.

 

It didn’t help that Hawkeye really did seem to have some kind of compulsive need to flirt with every living being in camp. Trapper hadn’t noticed just how much it had happened before, but now that he was looking for it it was almost constant. The nurses, Klinger, Radar, Henry, patients - his friend had a comment for them all.

 

It was driving Trapper nuts.

 

But the worst was when Hawkeye turned his attention on him, because what used to just be funny little jokes had become something else to Trapper entirely. Something that made his stomach squirm and his heartbeat irregular. Something that had him blushing so badly that Margaret had noticed.

 

What the hell was happening to him?

 

* * *

 

“Some enchanted evening,” Hawkeye was crooning as he dug around in a man’s spleen. “You may see a stranger. You may see a stranger acroooss a crowded room.”

 

“Colonel!” Frank whined from two tables away. “Can we _please_ have some quiet in here?”

 

A push was on and the casualties were pouring in. Trapper knew they’d been operating for far too long, because he was actually finding something very soothing about Hawkeye’s singing. “Why, Frank?” he asked, tossing a sponge. “Want to be able to hear yourself dropping instruments?”

 

“Colonel!” Margaret was assisting Trapper, but still made time to defend her hapless Major.

 

Henry appeared to be ignoring them all, probably in the hopes that everyone would forget he was there if he just stayed quiet.

 

“I see what the problem is,” Hawkeye said, pausing his chit chat to ask for a clamp, then continuing on. “You two want something more patriotic. I’ve got just the thing.” He started making bugle noises with his mouth and produced a version of Revelry that was both obnoxious and better than anything Trapper had heard Radar try to play.

 

“ _Colonel!_ ” Frank whined again, while most of the other medical staff began laughing.

 

“All right, all right,” Henry finally spoke up. “Let’s knock off the silliness. I’m up to my elbows in intestine here.”

 

Trapper finished closing his patient. “Ready for the next one. Klinger, get this guy to Post-Op.”

 

“Yes, sir!” Klinger replied, snapping into action with another orderly. The man may have been bucking for a discharge with all his might, but Trapper had to hand it to him. When it really came down to it, he always stepped up in the OR. And he still managed to be the most fashionable person he knew.

 

Trapper took a step back and pulled off his bloody gloves, replacing them with a fresh pair as two more orderlies brought in a new patient for him.

 

“No offense, Doc,” the patient said as he was set down. “But do you think I could get Captain Pierce to work on me?” Trapper had immediately begun examining the soldier’s injured shoulder instead of stopping to take a look at the man he’d be operating on. It was a bit disturbing how after several hours, it became easy to forget that these weren’t just a parade of wounds, but of people.

 

He blinked over at the man’s face and stuttered in surprise, “Major-- uh.” Trapper almost called him Major Broadshoulders. He looked up and met Hawkeye’s gaze; he’d clearly heard his name and paused his work on his patient long enough to see what was going on.

 

“Jessop,” Major Broadshoulders reminded him.

 

Trapper was still staring at Hawkeye, whose eyes suddenly flashed with concern as he heard the Major’s name.

 

“Finish closing for me, Kellye, will you?” he asked the nurse.

 

“Yes, doctor.”

 

Hawkeye tugged off his gloves and trashed them. “Well, well,” he said as he pulled on a new pair and approached Trapper’s table. “What have we here? I don’t usually like to give encore performances.”

 

The smile Broadshoulders gave him was nearly blinding and Trapper could actually see the Major relax as Hawkeye entered his line of vision. “Thought maybe you’d make an exception for me,” he said. “I went through all this trouble to come visit, after all.” His tone was jovial, but it was clear from the wavering in his voice that he was in a lot of pain, which really wasn’t much of a surprise given all of the shrapnel in his shoulder.

 

“How can I say no to that face?” Hawkeye said, and even though his own face was mostly covered by his mask, his eyes had crinkled into an obvious smile.

 

What the hell was the matter with Hawkeye? Surely Trapper wasn’t the only one who could see this flirting? He glanced around the OR. Margaret was lining up surgical instruments. Other nurses were bustling to and fro, apparently oblivious. Even Frank and Henry seemed to be missing it.

 

It was then that Trapper finally realized the extent of Hawkeye's brilliance. There was nothing strange about this from him. He did it so much and so often, that even when he was really flirting, in the OR - with a man - no one even looked twice. He'd somehow managed to hide who he was by not hiding a thing.

 

It was only Trapper knowing more than he was supposed to that made him feel like a voyeur, invading something intimate.

Hawkeye turned his gaze on Trapper, startling him. “I’ve got this one, Trap,” he said.

 

“You sure?” Trapper said, for some reason not liking the idea.

 

“Yeah,” Hawkeye replied, taking a look at the Major’s shoulder. “Ah, this isn’t so bad.” He was looking at Broadshoulders again. “Probably not even bad enough for a Purple Heart.”

 

Trapper stared at Hawkeye in disbelief as the man used the same words Trapper had said to him the night he’d patched up his graze.

 

“Oh good,” the Major panted, still smiling wryly. “My jacket’s getting too heavy anyhow.”

 

There was something about the fact that Hawkeye actually laughed at that quip that took Trapper from annoyed to angry.

 

“Everyone’s a comedian,” Trapper said, mostly under his breath. Major Broadshoulders didn’t seem to notice, but Hawkeye glanced at him, raising his eyebrows.

 

“We’ve got another patient over here!” Radar called, bringing in one to replace the man Kellye had finished closing.

 

“Guess that one’s mine,” Trapper said, using that as an excuse to break Hawkeye's gaze. “Since this one’s traded up.”

 

"Like I said, Doc," Broadshoulders managed to get out. "No offense. I just know the Captain here has great hands."

 

"I bet," Trapper muttered.

 

* * *

 

Trapper wasn’t sure what time they’d all finally made it to bed, but when he woke up the next morning, he was the only one in the Swamp. He was pretty sure Frank had Post-Op duty, which left him a bit surprised not to see an unconscious Hawkeye sprawled out on his cot.

 

Trapper didn’t see him in the mess tent either. Or the showers. It wasn’t until he shrugged on his lab coat as he entered Post-op that he spotted his friend. Hawkeye was in his red bathrobe, sitting in a chair next to Major Broadshoulder’s bed. He was laughing cheerfully at something. Trapper watched him wrap long fingers gently around the Major’s wrist, taking the man’s pulse.

 

Trapper didn’t know what made him head straight for them.

 

“Pulse is good,” Hawkeye was telling Broadshoulders. “You’ll be up on your feet in no time.”

 

“I wasn’t worried,” Broadshoulders replied with a smile.

 

“Bothering the patients, Hawk?” Trapper asked, stopping at the front of the Major’s bed and making a pretense of looking at his chart.

 

“Just practicing my bedside manner on a receptive audience,” Hawkeye replied, letting go of the Major’s wrist and leaning back in his chair.

 

“Have you gotten any sleep?” Trapper asked, flipping a page on the chart. He’d really have to read it later.  

 

“Of course I have,” Hawkeye replied. “I’m sleeping right now.”

 

Broadshoulders laughed at that, and Trapper used all his willpower to avoid rolling his eyes.

 

“Get going, will you?” Trapper said. “You and the Major here both need some rest.”

 

As if Trapper had given him permission, Hawkeye let out a yawn. “All right,” he said around it. “Fine.” He patted the Major’s arm then stood. “Rest up, Jessop. I’ll check in on you later.”

 

“Will do, Doc.”

 

The next time Trapper saw Hawkeye he looked much more rested, showered, and shaven. He was sitting in his chair, sipping from a martini glass.

 

“You, me, the supply hut, ten minutes,” he said as Trapper entered the Swamp.

 

Trapper pulled up short, staring at him. Was he being serious? Had Broadshoulder’s presence flipped some sort of switch for him or something? “What?” His mouth felt dry.

 

“Inventory duty,” Hawkeye reminded him. “Got postponed with the wounded, but, as Radar just frantically reminded me, it still needs to get done.”

 

“Oh,” Trapper said, swallowing. “Right. Of course.” He walked over to the still and poured himself some gin.

 

“I’d be annoyed, but at least it’s something to do,” Hawkeye said, swirling the gin around his glass. “Hey, you okay?”

 

Trapper’s eyes snapped up from his drink, stomach doing a very strange somersault when he met Hawkeye’s suddenly intense gaze. “What? Yeah. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

 

“You’re all flushed,” Hawkeye said, standing up and sweeping across the tent - he could do that, somehow, all long limbs and quick motions - to stand next to Trapper. “Are you getting sick?” He reached out to feel his forehead, much like Margaret had earlier.

 

Trapper smacked his hand away, a bit harder than he meant to, because he knew - he just knew - if Hawkeye touched him he was going to get even redder. “Don’t touch me.” It came out sharper than he had intended, and Hawkeye’s gaze bore into him for a long, uncomfortable moment.

 

He wondered, somewhat guiltily, if Hawkeye was thinking about the last time Trapper had said those words. When he’d shoved him away and caused him to cut himself on broken light bulbs. In the supply hut. Where they were going.

 

Before either of them could break the sudden awkward silence, Frank yanked the door to the Swamp open. “Drinking as usual, I see.”

 

“I’ll see you there,” Trapper said, downing the rest of his drink in one go and leaving before either of his tentmates could say anything else to him.

 

He stopped off at Radar’s office to get the checklist and requisition forms they would need, then entered the supply hut and surprised a corpsman and a nurse. Fortunately they hadn’t gotten too far out of uniform. “Sorry kids, inventory tonight.” Trapper tapped the clipboard in his hand. “You don’t gotta go home, but you can’t stay here.”

 

They sheepishly slunk out of the hut, and Trapper decided to get started. The sooner this was done the sooner he and Hawkeye wouldn’t be trapped alone in a quiet, private place that was generally used for more physical activities than counting penicillin. The kind of activities he couldn’t stop dreaming about. The kind of activities Hawkeye and Broadshoulders had engaged in.

 

Stupid Broadshoulders, coming here and invading. Asking for Hawkeye in OR, getting his stupid pulse read, flirting and making Hawkeye laugh -- Jesus Christ.

 

Like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped on his head, Trapper finally realized it.

 

He was jealous.

 

Jesus Christ, he was jealous of Broadshoulders. Which meant--

 

The sound of Hawkeye arriving snapped him from that train of thought. His friend waited until the door was closed to say, “I thought we were past this.”

 

Trapper, dazed from the realization and also planning to ignore what had happened in the Swamp, looked at him in confusion. “Huh? What are you talking about?"

 

"You tell me, Trapper," Hawkeye said, crossing his arms over his chest somewhat defensively. "You looked ready to deck me when I went to touch your forehead. Is this still a problem?"

 

"You're crazy, that's - I just don't like getting my temperature taken." It sounded false even to his own ears. "You know I'm a terrible patient. We doctors are like that."

 

"So you _are_ sick?" Now Hawkeye sounded concerned again. How he could flip from mad to worried so fast was a talent Trapper hadn't fully worked out.

 

"What? No. That's not what I meant." Hawkeye was eyeing him dubiously and Trapper busied himself looking at the list in his hands. "Can you check how much morphine we have?"

 

Hawkeye was staring at him, Trapper could feel it. After a moment he heaved a sigh and disappeared behind a row of shelves as he looked for the morphine. Trapper relaxed once his eyes were off of him, and stared at the antibiotics without counting anything.

 

There was silence for maybe thirty seconds before Hawkeye's disembodied voice came from across the hut. "Plenty of morphine. For once."

 

Trapper checked it off on the list. “Digitalis,” he called.

 

Hawkeye hummed in thought as he looked for the medicine. “So you’re not sick?” he eventually called to Trapper.

 

“No,” Trapper replied.

 

“Well, good. We need another box of Digitalis,” Hawkeye said.

 

“All right.” Trapper wrote that down. “Check the 3-0 and 4-0 silk.”

 

“Righto.” He could hear Hawkeye rummaging around. “Hey, how’s Jessop?”

 

“What?” That caught him by surprise. Why was Hawkeye asking him of all people? Then he realized Hawkeye hadn’t been on Post-op duty yet, so Trapper was the last one who could give him an update.

 

“Jessop. My Major?”

 

“ _Your_ Major?” What the hell was that supposed to mean? Trapper was glaring at the antibiotics as if it had wronged him.

 

"I operated on him, didn't I?”

 

“Right.” Trapper wasn’t so sure that’s really what Hawkeye had meant. “He’s fine. Be out of here in a day or so, probably.” Hopefully. Trapper should have just shut up, but he couldn’t help it when he added, “Your other patients are fine too. You know, the ones with more serious injuries?”

 

It fell quiet. Considering how loud Hawkeye could be, it was almost impressive that he managed to remain utterly silent until he popped his head around the shelf with an, “Ah ha!” and scared the hell out of him.

 

“Jesus!” Trapper exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

 

“So that’s what it is,” Hawkeye said smugly.

 

“That’s what _what_ is?” Trapper demanded, trying not to let himself get angry, even though he could feel it building.

 

“Everything was fine until Jessop showed up. Now he’s got you thinking about Tokyo again and, what? You suddenly remembered I like men as well as woman? Are you back to worrying I’m going to try and have my way with you?” He had a semi-amused smile on his face, but Trapper knew him well enough to know that he seemed worried about the answer he might get.

 

“No, damnit, I’m not,” Trapper snapped. “Besides, you already told me I’m not your type, didn’t you?”

 

“I did,” Hawkeye agreed, reaching for the clipboard in Trapper’s hand. Trapper let him have it, and watched as Hawkeye began writing down what they needed for sutures. He was sure that Hawkeye would notice that he hadn't really done anything. He'd been too busy panicking.

 

“Right,” Trapper said. He wasn’t sure what to call the feeling that struck him when he heard Hawkeye confirm it, sober and clear-headed. He was at a loss of what to do now that his hands weren’t occupied, so he turned and started rifling through the boxes of gloves to see how many they had. “So that’s your type, huh?”

 

Hawkeye paused in writing and glanced up at Trapper, looking confused and slightly wary about this topic of conversation. “What is?”

 

“Major Broadshoulders,” Trapper said, forgetting about the gloves and giving Hawkeye his full attention. “He’s your type.”

 

Hawkeye’s lips slowly quirked as Trapper’s words sunk in and then he let out a laugh. “Major _Broadshoulders_? I like that - that’s great.”

 

Trapper wasn’t really trying to be funny. It somehow made him feel worse that Hawkeye thought he was. “Well?”

 

“Well?” Hawkeye repeated, before realizing what Trapper was waiting for. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Why?”

 

Trapper shrugged. “I just think you could do better.” He reached for the clipboard. He needed something to stare at.

 

Hawkeye laughed again as he relinquished it. “Better? Than Major Broadshoulders? Oh, that name’s going to stick, I can tell already.” He was grinning. “Trap, that’s like saying I could do better than Hot Lips. I know you don't like men, but even you have to see that.”

 

Trapper’s eyes snapped up from the requisition forms and he realized from the look of surprise on Hawkeye’s face that he must have been glaring. He was seething suddenly. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“The night in the exam room after I patched you up?” Trapper pressed.

 

“Oh,” Hawkeye said. “You kissing me?”

 

Trapper stared at him, utterly taken aback. “You remember?”

 

“Of course I remember,” Hawkeye said. “If I could really drink until I forgot things, I would be having a much better time of it over here.”

 

“You didn’t say anything!” Trapper wanted to shake him.

 

“Neither did you!” Hawkeye replied. “I figured you didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

Trapper opened his mouth to refute him, then closed it again. That was probably more true than he had realized. He didn’t continue, unsure what it was he wanted to say.

 

“Look, Trap,” Hawkeye said with a sigh, apparently reading his silence as agreement. He turned his attention to the antibiotics that Trapper had tried and fail to count several times already, picking through them as he spoke. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. People get curious. I get it. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think you’re a homosexual, I promise.”

 

Of all the possible things he could say, Trapper wanted to smack himself when he heard “Am I really not your type?” come out of his mouth.

 

Hawkeye’s eyebrows raised, and he laughed. “Is that the problem? Did I crush your ego?” He stopped counting and reached out, taking hold of Trapper’s shoulders. “Trapper John McIntyre, you are only not my type insofar as I am pretty sure you have no attraction to men. I don’t go for heterosexuals, because that’s just futile. But otherwise? You are absolutely my type. Captain Roguish Grin, that’s what I call you -- or it is now. So your ego can rest easy--”

 

Hawkeye didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Trapper’s lips were on his so abruptly that not even Trapper had expected it. His hands took hold of Hawkeye’s face, clipboard clattering to the floor as he dropped it. A desire to press up against him caused Trapper to push his friend back into the shelf behind him, which shook at the sudden impact but fortunately didn’t tip over. Hawkeye was still for a moment, mouth still halfway open from speaking, and Trapper took advantage, deepening the kiss before he lost his chance. Hawkeye sucked in a breath through his nose, and Trapper shuddered as he finally responded, one arm snaking around Trapper’s waist, hand gripping at the back of his shirt. Hawkeye still tasted like gin, and Trapper couldn’t get enough of it.

 

He lost complete track of his senses, and he had no idea how long they kissed, pressed up against each other, but when they eventually broke for air, Trapper’s hands had moved down to grip at the upper arms of Hawkeye’s jacket, and he rested his forehead on the other man’s shoulder, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him.

 

The only sound in the hut for the next several moments was both of them panting, trying to catch their breath. Trapper had kissed plenty of women before, but never had he felt so lightheaded afterward. Hawkeye still had his hand on his back, and at some point his other hand had slipped around him as well, so he was holding him loosely.

 

“Trap?” Hawkeye eventually said, when Trapper still refused to lift his head and look at him. “You okay?”

 

“I don’t know,” Trapper muttered, eyes closed against the green fabric of Hawkeye’s jacket. How had this happened? He’d never been attracted to men. Not like this. All he wanted to do was go back to kissing Hawkeye and he had never felt so sure or so guilty about anything in his life. What would his wife think? His daughters?

 

His head rose and fell, along for the ride, as Hawkeye took a breath. “Look. If that was a mistake then it was a mistake. It’s all right. Things happen when people get tired, right? And we’ve both been tired since we got here.” There was a long pause as Hawkeye waited for a response, but Trapper’s heart was stuck in his throat. “Trapper?”

 

He could hear the uncertainty in Hawkeye’s tone without even having to look at him. Hawkeye’s body had slowly started tensing beneath him. Trapper had a sudden flashback to the exam room.

 

 _‘At best,’_ Hawkeye had said. _‘We fool around, you realize you made a huge mistake, and then you never speak to me again because that’s all you’ll be able to see when you look at me.’_

 

“It’s not a mistake,” Trapper said, and at once he felt Hawkeye relax. “I don’t know what it is and I don’t know what I am, but it’s not a mistake, all right?”

 

“All right.” Hawkeye said. He unwrapped his arms from Trapper’s waist. “Now stop trying to seduce me and let’s get this done. I’ve got a nine o’clock curfew and dad hates when boys get me home late.”

 

It was the sense of normalcy from Hawkeye’s glib joking that finally got Trapper to lift his head and look at him. “He got a gun collection I should be worried about?” Trapper asked, offering him a faint smile.

  
“Only if you get me pregnant,” Hawkeye returned with a grin.


	5. Chapter 5

The touching was back. Trapper, idiot that he was, had been so caught up in his personal crisis that he hadn't even really noticed it had stopped. But once it started again it finally occurred to him that Hawkeye hadn't really touched him at all since that day Trapper had blown up at him for it.

He worried at first that there would be something obvious about it. That everyone would suddenly know that on more than one occasion now Trapper had cornered Hawkeye in the empty X-ray room, or supply tent, or hell, even in the Swamp when the flaps were closed, and they'd taken the time to do extremely thorough examinations of one another's mouths.

But no one seemed to look twice. Hawkeye's touches weren't overtly sexual. They never had been. In fact, when Trapper stopped to scrutinize them, he didn't think there was even anything flirty about them. Hawkeye's touches weren't intended to make his skin tingle and his stomach twist up in anticipation, at least not the casual, public ones he got outside of their oral examinations. The arm over his shoulder, the occasional hand on his back, walking close enough to touch arms - those were just Hawkeye reaching out for connection, for the warmth of another human being.

The touches meant to make his skin tingle? To send shivers up his spine? Those were very different. Those were hands sliding up his shirt as they kissed, ghosting over his abdomen. They were long surgeon's fingers threading into his curly hair and fisting, tight enough to pull but not hurt. They were a palm on the small of his back, forcing him closer until they were flush against one another and Trapper could feel the warmth of him through their shirts.

They hadn't gone any further. Clothes had remained on and even the rubbing was kept to a minimum. Trapper wasn't sure he was ready to go beyond that, and Hawkeye hadn't pushed. In fact, Hawkeye had yet to initiate anything between them. He was always more than willing when Trapper came calling, but he was letting him lead. It was unexpected, honestly. Hawkeye was a sexual force of nature. Trapper had watched a number of nurses fall like palm trees in a hurricane when he turned his sights on them. And yet, he hadn't pursued Trapper at all. He wasn't completely sure what to make of that.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" They were in the Officers' Club, sitting in the very back corner, away from any prying ears. It was pretty full that evening, no wounded were expected for the next couple of days and the camp was making the most of it. Father Mulcahy was playing a song Trapper might have recognized if he wasn't hitting so many wrong notes.

"Well," Hawkeye slurred, mock thoughtfully. They were about half a bottle of gin into the evening. Major Broadshoulders had been shipped off to Seoul, and Trapper had decided that that was cause to celebrate. "That depends." Hawkeye was sliding further and further down in his seat, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Trapper knew he was probably going to be picking him up off the floor later.

"On what?" Trapper asked, chin resting on the palm of his hand. He was pretty sure it was the only way his head was going to stay up.

"On if you're buying the next round." Hawkeye grinned at him and Trapper felt his stomach do that strange little jump and twist it had been doing recently anytime Hawkeye did practically anything.

Trapper, chin still in hand, turned his entire head to look at the bar across the room. "You expect me… you expect me to make it all the way over there?"

"Oh, waitress!" Hawkeye called, arm lifting and waving at Klinger, who was in a pretty backless green number and smoking a cigar.

Klinger raised his eyebrows and came over to their table, heels clicking on the floor. Trapper found himself staring at his shoes, wondering how he managed to walk without falling flat on his face. "What can I do you for, sirs?"

"Next round's on Trapper," Hawkeye told him. "For you too, if you'll be our feet. Ours seem to have wandered off."

"I knew these heels would catch the eye of a fancy fellow tonight," Klinger said, smirking down at Trapper, who finally blinked up at him. "Gimmie the dough and off I'll go."

Trapper dug into his pockets and pulled out some cash. "Here you go, sweetheart. Buy yourself something nice."

"Men. You're all the same." Klinger snatched the money from Trapper and turned on his heel, flipping his scarf over his shoulder as he headed up to the bar.

"How'd I end up buying Klinger a drink?" Trapper said.

"Did you?" Hawkeye asked, as if he had no recollection of the last thirty seconds. He reached out and patted Trapper on the arm. "That was real swell of you."

"I think it was swell of  _you_ ," Trapper replied.

"Well I'm a swell of a guy," Hawkeye said, before breaking into a bout of giggles. He only giggled like that when he was well and truly toasted. He had his crazed laugh, the one that was loud and high pitched and meant he was just completely tickled about something; he had his obnoxious laugh, the one that was clearly faked and made him sound demented, saved for the purpose of driving Frank and/or Margaret up the wall; and he had the drunken giggle, which was so infectious it always got Trapper going as well. Tonight was no different.

When Klinger returned with a gin for each of them, they were both cracking up so badly they couldn't speak. He set their drinks down in front of them. "I'll keep the change as a tip," he said, tucking it down the front of his dress when it was clear neither one was going to say anything for a while. "Thanks for the drink."

Trapper eventually wiped the tears from his eyes and caught his breath, picking up the drink and somehow not spilling it all over himself when he took a sip. "Okay. Okay wait," he said. "You said I can ask you something."

"Sounds like something I'd say," Hawkeye replied. He wasn't so lucky when it came to spilling his drink, but Trapper wasn't sure he noticed some of it sloshing onto the table.

"Who was it?" Trapper said.

Even sober Hawkeye probably wouldn't have had enough information to answer that non sequitur. Three sheets to the wind Hawkeye blinked owlishly before saying, "That was Klinger. That or a nurse who needs a shave."

"No, no," Trapper said. He lowered his voice and Hawkeye had to lean in to hear him over the music and talking. Trapper vaguely had the thought that they probably looked like his daughters did when they were telling secrets, heads almost touching as one listened too intently to the other. "You told me before, you said you played this game before."

"Trapper," Hawkeye said, and Trapper was too focused on trying to lift up his drink to look at him, though he could hear the amusement in his voice. "Trap. We're not playing any games."

"No," Trapper tried again. "In the exam room."

"Which time?" When Trapper looked at him, the grin Hawkeye was wearing was absolutely devilish.

"The first one," Trapper said. He set down his glass. "You said, it's not worth a friendship and that you'd played this game before."

The grin slipped a bit. "You can't remember who Klinger is, but you remember that?" Hawkeye asked. He leaned back again, drooping in his chair once more.

"You said I could ask." Trapper felt like maybe he shouldn't have. He might have just killed the good mood.

"Ah," Hawkeye said, pointing a finger at him and taking a sip of his gin. "But I never said I'd answer."

Trapper almost argued the point, but his head was really heavy and he was suddenly so tired. He decided draping himself over the table was the correct course of action, resting his cheek on the crook of his arm. His eyes had closed and he couldn't get himself to open them, even though the room had started spinning.

Hawkeye reached out and pet his hair, and the action was gentle and fond. Trapper was too drunk to really worry about what it might look like to anybody watching. Besides, Hawkeye was always more affectionate than usual when he had a few belts in him. Everyone knew that.

"What are you two doing?" a voice said above them.

"Henry!" Hawkeye said to the newcomer. "Come here, let me give you a kiss!"

Case and point.

* * *

"I still don't see why I had to come along," Hawkeye called over the rush of wind, one hand on his helmet, the other holding onto the back of his seat. Trapper was driving, dirt kicking up in a cloud behind them as they headed back to camp from the orphanage. It was two days after their drunken night in the Officers' Club, and, fortunately, the war seemed to be taking a bit of a break. They hadn't seen any casualties in almost a week, and as far as they knew, none were expected anytime soon. Sister Teresa had requested a doctor come by to give the kids a checkup, and Trapper had forced Hawkeye to go with him.

"It was the nurses' request," Trapper called back, slowing the jeep as he took a turn. He was probably the only person in camp who didn't drive like a madman. That's why he'd taken the wheel. Whenever Hawkeye drove, he spent most of the trip praying to a God he wasn't completely sure he believed in that they wouldn't flip the jeep and die.

"What!" Hawkeye exclaimed in mock outrage. "They wanted to get rid of me?"

Whenever Hawkeye got bored, he tended to revert to nurse chasing as a passtime. The nurses needed a break. At least that's what Trapper had decided. "Can you blame them?" he asked.

"I certainly can!" Hawkeye said.

"The kids were cute, weren't they?" Trapper said.

"They make them pretty adorable over here," Hawkeye agreed.

Trapper was about to mention that there were two sisters that had reminded him of his girls when a loud explosion went off about thirty feet behind him. He started so badly he swerved dangerously, but managed to keep the jeep on the road. "What the hell was that!" he yelled.

Hawkeye had turned in his seat to look back. "Either a mine or a mortar," he called back.

There was another explosion to their right. "Mortars!" Trapper replied, swerving again.

"Pull over!" Hawkeye yelled. "We need to get off the road!"

He didn't have to tell Trapper twice. He pulled off the road in a move that was Hawkeye levels of reckless. They were both out of the jeep and running for cover almost before it was fully stopped. The shells were really coming down now, it seemed like there was one every few seconds. All Trapper could think about was how many pieces they could end up in if one hit anywhere near them, and who would be left to fix them? Frank?

"I thought they'd paused this war thing!" Hawkeye yelled as another one hit and the ground shook, nearly knocking them off their feet.

"Why don't you go ask them what the big idea is?" Trapper replied as they ran. Then he spotted it. "Hey! There!" There was what looked like a small opening to a cave in the hillside. At least it would be some cover. He grabbed Hawkeye's wrist and tugged him along, barely managing to hold back a scream as another mortar dropped.

They were almost at the cave entrance when he stopped letting Trapper lead him along. "Are you crazy?" Hawkeye asked, voice pitched high.

"Hurry up!" Trapper said, yanking him forward. "It's better than being out here!"

"It could cave in!" Hawkeye replied, stopping completely. If Trapper hadn't had a firm grip on his wrist, he might have turned and run the opposite way.

"That's a maybe, sure, but if we stay out here we could  _definitely_  be blown into tiny pieces!" Trapper said, trying to get him moving again.

Hawkeye wasn't budging. "I think I'll take my chances!"

"Hawkeye, come  _on_!" Trapper exclaimed.

A mortar landed near enough that they could both feel the heat of the explosion. Luckily they weren't close enough to take any shrapnel, and it seemed to scare Hawkeye badly enough to let Trapper drag him into the cave. It was small; they both had to duck to avoid cracking their heads. It went back far enough they could be fairly sure they were safe from any more shells, and there was just enough room for the two of them. Hawkeye took one look around and immediately tried to turn and leave.

"Hawk, are you out of your mind?" Trapper demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders. "It's not safe!"

"I can't breathe!" Hawkeye said, and it was then Trapper noticed the shallow breaths he was taking. He was looking around wildly, like a caged animal about to make a break for it, and even in the dimness of the cave, Trapper could see he was almost unnaturally pale.

Trapper suddenly understood. "Claustrophobia?"

Hawkeye only nodded, his breaths coming in short gasps. He was trying to back out of the cave, but another shell hit outside and the noise was almost deafening. Hawkeye let out a scream that sounded like a mixture of terror and frustration. "I hate this!" he yelled, hands gripping at his hair as his words echoed loudly in the cave.

"Hey," Trapper said, still firmly gripping his shoulders. "Look at me." Hawkeye's eyes were screwed tightly shut. "Hawkeye, come on, look at me."

His breathing was still erratic, but he eventually listened, locking his blue eyes on Trapper.

"You're okay," Trapper said. "You're gonna be fine."

"I can actually feel the air being sucked out of here," Hawkeye said. He was trembling.

"It's not," Trapper said. "I promise. You're fine." He suddenly found himself praying to that God he wasn't sure he believed in that no shell would hit and trap them. He couldn't stand that look of terror Hawkeye's eyes, and he didn't want to be made into a liar. "You've gotta calm down, Hawk. Breathe, okay?" The man was practically hyperventilating. Trapper wished he had a paper bag for him to breathe into. "Match my breaths. In and out. Slow and steady."

Trapper inhaled and exhaled at a slower pace and Hawkeye focused on trying to do the same. They both nearly jumped out of their skins as more mortars fell outside, but Trapper stayed calm through nothing but sheer force of will and after several minutes that felt like hours Hawkeye's breathing had returned to something closer to a normal pace. Trapper didn't release his shoulders. He still looked unsteady and pale, and he was afraid Hawkeye might do something nuts like run into the shelling to get out of the cave.

"I'm sorry," Trapper said. "I had no idea."

Hawkeye had turned his focus to the light coming from the entrance of the cave. "It's not your fault I have a completely irrational fear of enclosed spaces." Another deep breath. "It's been like this since I was a kid. I mean, objectively, scientifically, I know there's air in here. I know the walls aren't closing in around me. It's all in my head." Trapper had noticed that whenever Hawkeye wasn't entirely in control of a situation he tended to ramble. "And even though I know that, I literally can't stop shaking."

More shells fell outside. "Here," Trapper said. "Sit down." He guided Hawkeye to the ground, then sat next to him and grabbed his hand. It was both meant as comfort and also a way to keep hold of him in case he tried to make a break for it. "Tell me something."

"Huh?" Hawkeye said, finally tearing his eyes from the cave entrance and looking at him.

"Talk about something," Trapper said. "It'll distract you." Another shell exploded and he realized his hand was squeezing Hawkeye's hard as he tried to rein in his own fear. "And me for that matter."

Hawkeye said nothing about how tightly Trapper's hand was gripping his - probably because his own grip was like a vice. "I'm not a performing chimp, sir." It was meant as a joke, but it lacked his usual bluster. "Why don't you talk about something?"

"Because you're the talker," Trapper said. It wasn't that Trapper didn't speak. He just usually said his piece and then shut up. Hawkeye could babble on for hours about nothing if the mood struck.

"It'd be easier if I wasn't in the middle of a scene out of my literal worst nightmare," Hawkeye said.

"Come on," Trapper encouraged. "Tell me about Maine. Or, I dunno, your dad."

"My dad," Hawkeye said, taking a shaky breath. Trapper could tell he was still terrified, trying desperately to hold it back. He started to dig through his medical bag with his free hand, and Trapper realized for the first time that he'd actually had the foresight to grab it when they'd fled the jeep. Hawkeye pulled out an envelope. "He can talk for both of us." He leaned his head back against the rock wall of the cave and handed the letter to Trapper.

"You want me to read your dad's letter?" Trapper asked, looking down at it.

"I can't think right now," Hawkeye admitted. His breathing was slow but forced, like he had to keep reminding himself to do it.

Trapper didn't let go of Hawkeye, instead using his free hand and his teeth to get the letter open. He unfolded it and smoothed it out on his thigh, before picking it up and clearing his throat. The lighting was dim, but if he held it close to his face and squinted, he could make out the words.

"Dear Ben," Trapper began, before immediately stopping to say, "He calls you Ben?"

"Depends on his mood," Hawkeye said, eyes closed. "He must be lonely." Another measured breath. "That's what mom called me."

Trapper considered that for a moment - Hawkeye almost never spoke of his mom - then continued reading. "When I read your letters, I almost feel like you're here again, regaling me with the stories of your latest hijinks from college. I always read them in the kitchen, with a beer in hand, just like I would when you'd perch on a stool and talk about the latest professor you'd driven into early retirement."

"One," Hawkeye interrupted. "Just one."

Trapper grinned, and continued on. The letter was mostly updates on several citizens of Crabapple Cove, all of whom the older Doctor Pierce confirmed were in good health. "I must admit, son, if you have to be over there, I'm glad you're at the 4077th. I can tell by the way you write about them how fond you are of all your fellow comrades in arms (except, I suppose, for the two Major Adulterers)." Trapper paused reading to laugh at that, and Hawkeye was grinning lightly. "I think I'd like Trapper in particular-"

"You made that up," Hawkeye interrupted.

"I didn't, it says so right here." Trapper scanned a little further. "He says he wants to meet me and I remind him of George. Who's George?"

Hawkeye didn't seem to be listening though. He was staring at the cave entrance. "Hey - listen," he said.

"What?" Trapper replied.

"Silence," Hawkeye said. "The shelling stopped!" He immediately tried to stand, but Trapper wasn't letting go of his hand just yet. "Trap, come on, I have to get out of here." He tried to pry Trapper's fingers off of him.

Trapper listed a few more moments, but it seemed like Hawkeye was right, the explosions had stopped. He finally let go and watched Hawkeye bolt for the entrance, hunched over to avoid hitting his head.

"Air!" Trapper heard him calling from outside.

He slowly pushed himself to his feet and gathered up the medical bag, folding up Daniel Pierce's letter and tucking it back in.

"Beautiful, lovely, life giving air!"

Trapper exited the cave and his eyes hadn't even adjusted before Hawkeye grabbed him and kissed him. It was the first time  _Hawkeye_  had kissed  _him_ , and as his knees weakened he wondered if this is what the nurses felt like when Hawkeye's attention was theirs alone. It was chaste and Hawkeye pulled back after only a few moments, then lightly brushed his lips over Trapper's again before pulling away completely. "Thanks," he said.

"For what?" Trapper asked, a bit dazed. Goddamnit, Hawkeye really was a good kisser. Possibly the best kisser he'd had the pleasure of kissing. Goddamn him.

"Keeping me together," Hawkeye replied. "In body  _and_  mind."

"Uh. Anytime," Trapper said. He almost wished he could drag Hawkeye back into the cave. It was probably the closest thing they'd get to total privacy in the army. "Now let's hope the jeep's still together, or we're gonna be walking the rest of the way to camp."

 


End file.
